Beneath the neon banner
of a grenadine marquee,
the actor stands, enough buzz
enough wattage frosting the air—
spun sugar of a zillion bulbs
flashed from here to eternity.
Fans adore from roped off sides:
studded velvet, satin puff wives,
the trimmed, invited guests
but tonight all eyes devour him:
our star confection, the groom
atop celebrity’s cake. We move,
licked inside by a rug’s
crimson tongue where the lobby
thrums: edgy industry suits
scuttling the crowd,
eager to know who’s a who
and who’s not. Young wannabe execs,
they’re creaming for a hit
and we see them later,
credits still rolling, theatre still gushing,
they scurry, check the rising temp,
sweet smell of consensus. Trained
to think only numbers matter,
all sense of taste’s been deadened.
In the corners they meet
and their mouths twitch,
sniffing the air—Is it good? Is it good?